


Finding Our Way

by roseforthethorns



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Danger, Drug Use, Fighting, Fluff, M/M, Rescue, Romance, Suicide Trigger, injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-04
Updated: 2012-07-04
Packaged: 2017-11-09 04:00:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/451021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roseforthethorns/pseuds/roseforthethorns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The day that John decides to kill himself, his text to a certain consulting detective is answered.</p><p> </p><p>(I own nothing of these characters. All Sherlock rights go to the BBC, Moffat, and Gatiss. I'm just having some fun.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. TIred

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my co-writer, you--make--me--beautiful.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You'd better have a really bloody good excuse for what you've done to me-JW
> 
> I was about to take my entire bottle of anti-depressants. I still might-JW
> 
> It is entirely possible that he's dreaming this and is long gone in a drug-induced stupor; it had happened before. His mobile chimes.
> 
> It hasn't been a damn picnic for either of us, I assure you. -SH
> 
> "Oh, no of course not. I'm the great Sherlock Holmes, look how I've suffered," John mutters, anger rising in his chest again.

John Watson is tired.

It has been three years since his best friend fell to his death from the roof of St. Bart's Hospital, and he is worn out from the effort it is taking to survive. He'd broken it off with Mary ages ago and now only had Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and Mycroft for regular company; that alone was enough to drive him out of his mind. SO, after a particularly trying day, John just gives up. He fills a new prescription for his anti-depressants and returns to 221B.

Mary had always asked why he didn't move away, get rid of everything and start again. John had always argued that it was "sentiment" which it was. Packing would really mean that Sherlock was gone, and as much as the doctor knew it in his head, he still wasn't ready or willing to accept it in his heart.

John fills a glass with water and sits on the sofa, pulling out his mobile. _Should he leave a note?_ Well, there is only one person he wants to tell, and he's dead. John types off a quick message and sends it, his last words to his old friend.

_I can't do this anymore, Sherlock. It hurts too much. Goodbye. -JW_

John opens the bottle and is about to take the first pill when his mobile chimes. He freezes, his heart pounding very loudly all of a sudden. Then it chimes again. And again.

_John, stop. -SH_

_You're not hallucinating. This is real. Now, please, just listen to me, all right? -SH_

_John, please. Please don't do this. -SH_

John reads and rereads those three texts. _This. Isn't. Possible._

_What? No, this isn't possible.-JW_

_Yes, it is. -SH_

_Afghanistan or Iraq? -SH_

John sighs when he sees that one. _Anderson and Donovan must be having a right laugh_ , he thinks.

_I blogged about that-JW_

_Vatican Cameos. -SH_

John ducks instinctively at those two words, the day in Irene Adler's apartment flooding back. Only one person has ever said those words to him.

_...Sherlock?-JW_

_Yes. I know I have a lot to explain to you. -SH_

_I just ducked, you son of a bitch-JW_

"This is ridiculous. I'm texting a dead man," John says, then rereads "Sherlock's" text, suddenly angry.

_EXPLAINING?!-JW_

_You wanted proof, did you not? -SH_

John is shaking. _Can't be true, want it to be true_ , the two thoughts are playing tug of war with his brain and his heart.

_You'd better have a really bloody good excuse for what you've done to me-JW_

_I was about to take my entire bottle of anti-depressants. I still might-JW_

It is entirely possible that he's dreaming this and is long gone in a drug-induced stupor; it had happened before. His mobile chimes.

_It hasn't been a damn picnic for either of us, I assure you. -SH_

"Oh, no of course not. I'm the great Sherlock Holmes, look how I've suffered," John mutters, anger rising in his chest again.

_Oh, really. No picnic for you, huh?-JW_

_No, you're not going to do that. You're going to wait, and you may punch me in the face repeatedly if you like. -SH_

_I'm nearly at the flat. -SH_

John stares at the mobile for a moment, completely lost. _Not going to do-oh, right, the pills. Hmmm, well, if it is Sherlock, maybe I'll scare him._

_Really? I just might...-JW_

_Either punch you or take the pills-JW_

_Haven't decided yet-JW_

_There_ , John thinks. _Let's see what he makes of that_. He doesn't have to wait long.

_I wouldn't appreciate it very much. If I've managed to stay away from the drugs for this long, you can wait to punch me a few minutes. -SH_

John blinks repeatedly as he reads the last message. 'Sherlock' had almost gone back to the drugs? John almost really believes for a moment, retorting with:

_Yeah, well, you'd want out if you've had to have dinner with Mycroft for three years straight because he doesn't trust you on your own with a knife and fork. -JW_

_He's terribly overbearing, isn't he? I'll make sure to speak with him at some point. He's not high up on my list of priorities at the moment, however. -SH_

John rubs his eyes, tired again. Then he hears a noise.

_Those aren't your feet on the stairs, are they?-JW_

_Yes, of course. -SH_

_Oh, of course.-JW_

_That was sarcasm, by the way.-JW_

As an afterthought:

_And the door's open. I don't bother shutting it anymore.-JW_

"Really, I'd have expected you to lock up the place," remarks Sherlock, limping into the flat. He glances at John, feeling as if his heart were about to explode out of his chest.

The first thing John notices is the limp: right leg. His eyes travel slowly up the detective until they reach his face, not able to register the expression there. His hallucinations have never been this... well, real.

Sherlock says nothing for a few moments, because he isn't sure what there is to say. He walks over towards John, carefully snatching up the bottle of pills and slipping them into his coat pocket. "Now that that's taken care of, you don't have to worry about choosing any longer."

John stands slowly, the height difference the same as it ever was. He reaches up and touches Sherlock's face, fingers tracing over the detective's cheekbone. "Sherlock" he breathes. None of the visions were ever, _ever_ solid. _This is real. It has to be._

Sherlock can't help it: he smiles slightly, despite the circumstances. "I've missed you," he says in a quiet voice.

"Good." John draws his hand back and punches Sherlock right where his fingers had just rested. "THREE. SODDING. YEARS. YOU. ABSOLUTE. MORON!"

Sherlock staggers, nearly falling over. He glances up, looking John in the eye.

John pounces, not caring how hard they fell; he is on top of Sherlock, shaking the detective by his lapels. "DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU DID TO ME? DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA?! I'VE BEEN ON SUICIDE WATCH FOR PART OF THE LAST 3 YEARS BECAUSE I WANTED TO FOLLOW YOU. FOLLOW YOU, AND NOW YOU AREN'T EVEN DEAD?!"

Sherlock remains silent which only infuriates John more.

"SAY SOMETHING!" John shouted, eyes burning with unshed tears. "DO SOMETHING or I _swear_ I'll turn your face into a mask of bruises"

"I didn't have a choice, John," Sherlock finally says through gritted teeth. "I had to do it."

"No choice? You could have TOLD ME!"

"They would've killed you the same had you known any sooner than now. Even now, it's not completely safe but, again, I didn't exactly have a choice," Sherlock snaps acidly.

John freezes, still holding Sherlock by his lapels. "Killed me?"

"Yes. Had I not jumped, you would have been killed instantly, along with Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. The other two were forgotten about in the past three years, but not you. You would've been long dead."

John shakes his head, still pinning Sherlock to the floor. "Why me? I'm-I'm nobody. I'm not worth anything..."

Sherlock scoffs quietly. "You are to me, obviously."

"What am I worth to you?"

Sherlock looks evenly at John. "More than the cases, more than London, more than everything, actually. My heart, you know. He said he'd burn it out of me; he figured out how to do it quite nicely."

John stares into those blue eyes that haunted his dreams for three years. "I'm... _I'm_  your heart?"

"Yes," replies Sherlock simply, "you are."

John's heart is in his throat. He can feel his pulse everywhere and is sure Sherlock can feel it too.

"Now, unless you see it fit to punch me again, I think we could probably get off of the floor, and I could better explain things to you, if you'd like. Unless you want me to leave, in which case I will."

John shakes his head. "No to both," he whispers, leaning forward and kissing the detective

Sherlock tenses at first; the amount of physical contact he had had in the past three years had been next to none. Eventually, he relaxes, however, and finds himself quite shocked. "You... care?" questions Sherlock in surprise, seeming almost dazed.

"You ninny, of course I do. I wouldn't have wanted to kill myself if I didn't."

"Yes, don't try that ever again, all right?"

"If you promise to never leave."

"I won't," he assures him. "And if I do, you're coming with me."

The tears John has been holding back begin to fall as he kisses Sherlock again, pressing them both into the floor.

"John?" Sherlock asks, his voice quiet.

"Yes?"

"I...I love you."

John blinks slowly and then smiles. "I- I love you too. I've missed you so much. I want you so much. _Sherlock..._ "

"I practiced saying that, you know," the detective remarks, a slight smile on his face. "I sounded like an idiot. Still think I do. I don't mind, though."

John chuckles at that. "Only you would practice those 3 words." He kisses the man again, smiling. "You don't sound like an idiot. I promise."

"I am sorry, you know," Sherlock says, the slightest hint of desperation in his voice. "I know... I know it was bad."

"I- I _forgive you_ , Sherlock"

"You do? Honestly?" he asked, eyebrows furrowed in concern.

John nods. "Explain later, and while I'm still angry, I trust you. I always have."

"Good. I'm glad you trusted me. I've always trusted you as well, although I hope that goes without saying," says Sherlock, carefully lifting himself off of the floor, wincing as he does so.

John helps Sherlock up, brow furrowing as he sees the pain on Sherlock's face. "Are you all right?"

"Fine, just got into a bit of trouble a few weeks ago. May need your doctorly help, if you would."

"Sure" John helps Sherlock over to the couch. "What happened?"

"Shot," says Sherlock dismissively.

"WHAT?! Why didn't you get help?" John helps Sherlock to lie down on the couch before running to grab his travel medicine kit.

"If I did that, I'd risk being seen, which would have been as good as suicide for me, and murder for you. Too dangerous," calls Sherlock.

John rushes back in with his kit and clean towels. "Um, you'll need to take your trousers off."

Sherlock does so without a word. "Sebastian Moran, have you heard of him?" he questions as John takes out his supplies.

John shakes his head, placing one of the towels under Sherlock's leg where he can see the ugly, scabbing wound.

"He's the one Moriarty left in charge after he killed himself. Caught him around Baker Street a few weeks ago, which was when this happened," he says, cringing. "Only had one bullet in his gun, luckily."

"Yeah, luckily." John pulls on a pair of rubber gloves and picks up his scalpel. "Um, this is probably going to hurt."

"He's the only one left, though, so things are considerably safer than they've been for the past three years." Sherlock clenches his fists in anticipation.

"He's still out there? You mean he's probably watching us right now, don't you?" John rummages through the kit, finding his pack of alcohol swabs.

"Well, he could be dead for all I know. I shot at him as well, but he was gone when I woke up. Someone could've removed the body, but it's unlikely. Still, I was sure I'd gotten him at least once."

John nods, carefully cleaning the area. "Well, it isn't deep, so you're lucky there." He positions himself and slowly cuts open the scab to explore the wound. "Sorry, sorry," he mutters as Sherlock twitches, fingernails digging into the couch, clearly biting back a moan of pain.

"Fine," the detective mutters back in reply, his eyes stinging.

John works swiftly, easily finding the bullet. "It's fairly close to the surface," he says as he pulls it out with his tongs. "There." He drops it into one of Sherlock's old Petri dishes.

"Thank you," breathes Sherlock, watching John work. "I'd considered trying myself, but it was probably a good idea to wait."

"You're lucky you decided to return today. A few more days and you might have been limping the rest of your life." John cleans the wound as best he can and sutures it. "There." He bandages it tightly. "You'll need to change that every 12 hours for the next three days."

"Yes, all right, thank you," says Sherlock, grabbing his trousers and carefully putting them back on. John cleans up his materials, moving them to the kitchen and washing his hands while Sherlock resumes his place on the couch, questioning, "Now what?"

"Well..." John returns from the kitchen, sitting next to the detective. "I was actually quite enjoying kissing you before, but I think I just want to be close to you right now"

Sherlock smiles, but it fades quickly. "You're sure you're all right? You don't hate me?"

"I told you before, I forgive you and I trust you."

"I know. I was just expecting it to be more... difficult than that, I suppose."

"I punched you, tackled you to the floor, screamed at you, kissed you, cried on you, and then dug a bullet out of your leg. My emotions are exhausted to the point where I only want to focus on how I've always felt about you but took me until the day you jumped to realize." John pauses a moment to breathe. "I really do love you, Sherlock."

Sherlock chuckles quietly, his eyelids beginning to feel heavy. "I'm glad things worked out," he says sleepily, blinking rapidly, trying to keep himself awake.

John sighs, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's chest. 'When was the last time you slept?"

"Three days? Four?" He shrugs slightly. "I don't remember."

"Sleep. I'll stay with you. Promise."

"Okay," says Sherlock, and it's only a matter of seconds before he's asleep.

John Watson holds his friend, finally nodding off himself, his head resting over Sherlock's heart.


	2. The Yard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After successfully dispatching Moran, the Baker Street Boys are hauled in for another case.

John collapses on the sofa, breathing heavily with relief. "Thank God that's over. I thought you were a goner there for a minute, Sherlock."

The detective smiles slightly, removing his gun from his coat. "That'd be a bit of a disappointment after everything."

"Yes, well," John rises and walks back over to Sherlock, hugging him gently from behind. "You know, we never finished what we started the other day..."

Sherlock laughs under his breath. "You know, I've never been in a relationship before, John. Of any type, really." His mobile buzzes before he can say more, and he glances at it in irritation, rolling his eyes. "Bloody Mycroft, of course."

 _Cockblocked by the older brother_ , John thinks. "What the hell does he want?"

"Something going on at the Yard... a shooting evidently. Lestrade's fine." He pauses, and then asks with a slight smirk, "You've seen him more than I have, anything going on between him and Lestrade?"

John smirks. "Ohhhhh, yes, and I thought _you_ were inept in this area. Mycroft is a disaster. I know _way_ more about their sex life then I EVER wanted to." John grins. "And I know you haven't done the relationship thing, but I bet you'll be fine. I know you better than anyone."

"Hey, I figured out as much as I did without having seen him once, I'd say that's pretty good, wouldn't you? And of course he's a disaster," laughs Sherlock. "Come on, I suppose we've got to do down to solve all the world's problems. Of course, if I can embarrass Mycroft along the way, that'd be nice, as he's been adamantly denying anything to do with a relationship."

"Well, now that you're back, I suppose we can go down to the Yard. But promise me we'll try when we get back?"

"Anxious, are you?" teases Sherlock. "Yes, of course. Try and give me a chance to figure things out, though, all right?" he questions as the two step into a cab.

"Eager is probably a better word than anxious," John replies, sitting next to Sherlock instead of on the opposite side of the cab the way he used to. "What do you need to figure out? Maybe I can help."

"How things work, what I'm supposed to say and do. Really, I suppose nothing much has changed, but still," answers Sherlock, "I'd like to learn."

"Well, you have the advantage that I know how you usually are and won't leave because you've said something unintentionally hurtful. And you said 'I love you' the other day. That's a huge step, Sherlock."

"Yes, but I practiced," he reminds him, an almost childlike look upon his face.

"That's all any of it is, practice. And you lucked out there as well: I have practice."

"Whatever happened with Mary?"

John turns bright red. Of course Sherlock knew about Mary. "She- she couldn't handle how I was after you died. Like all the others, she said I was in love with you. I had never really believed it until _she_ said it."

Sherlock nods, glancing out the window. "Things were serious for a while, though. Mycroft had said there were whispers of an engagement." He pauses, and says, "I'm a bit glad things didn't work out, though. Not sure what I would've done if you had proposed."

John stares. "Well, there were intentions of engagement, actually. I thought I would propose but they day before, I had a... relapse." He supposes it's the best word for it. "I had a very rough episode that landed me in a psych ward for three days. That's when she told me. She stayed with me until I got out and helped me move back to Baker Street before she left. She still calls me up occasionally, asking how I'm doing." John mulls over the rest of Sherlock's remark in silence for a moment, his words heavy in the air. "What would you have done if I'd actually proposed?"

"Yes, I heard about that," Sherlock says gravely, referring to John's breakdown. "I would've dropped by, checked to see if you were actually happy. If you were..." Sherlock shakes his head slightly. "I'm not sure I'd have come back. Not if you were finally happy. I couldn't take that away from you."

"But I wasn't happy. I wasn't going to really be happy. Surely you had to have known that."

"I would've figured it out, yes. But had you been, for some reason, genuinely happy, I don't know that I'd have returned."

"It would have ended with the pill bottle. It's the only way it could have ended for me without you." John rests his head against Sherlock's shoulder, eyes prickling with tears

"I know. I'm sorry," Sherlock says, leaning slightly against John. "You know that I considered doing it once? Not with pills, but drugs. Didn't do it, obviously."

"Really?" John vaguely remembers Sherlock referencing it in his texts the day he returned. "During your time away?"

"Once or twice, yes, but I was able to stop myself before it got to that point. Not during the past three years, before. The night I realized what was going to happen, what I was going to have to do... I think that was the worst. There was nothing I could have done to change it. I thought it'd have been easier that way, to just stop things before they started."

John is relieved as the cab pulls up to the Yard. He doesn't want to discuss Sherlock dying anymore. He follows the detective out of the cab and into the building

Sherlock meets Lestrade first, glancing around the place. "Premeditated," he remarks to no one in particular. Lestrade leads him into the room where the victim is: Lestrade's office. His face falls as he looks at the victim, who is similar in stature to Lestrade. "Where were you at the time?" asks Sherlock. 

"Emergency call," Lestrade answers.

"Where you supposed to be?"

"I'm normally in the office at that time."

Sherlock sighs heavily, looking at the victim. "It was supposed to be you," he says, voice flat, eyes burning.

John watches, suddenly having an idea. "Does anyone else know about you and Mycroft?" he whispers so only Lestrade and Sherlock can hear him, just in case Sally or Anderson happen to walk by.

Lestrade's face turns crimson. "I don't- don't think so-"

"Meaning quite possibly yes," interjects Sherlock.

"Probably some ploy to threaten your brother," John says to Sherlock "It can't be _him,_ can it?"

"He is dead, right?" John looks at Sherlock for an answer.

Sherlock shakes his head. "No, he's dead. But that doesn't mean that there aren't people out there who worked for him. Those people are supposed to be dead; I should know. Doesn't mean that there aren't more I didn't know about..."

"We need to get Lestrade to a safe house until we figure this out. Or lock him down in Mycroft's flat." John smirks at that last one, still speaking quietly to the detective.

Sherlock starts to pace around the small room, panic coursing through him. Sebastian is dead. Moriarty is dead. Sherlock has spent three damn years making sure every last person was contacted, detained, or destroyed. "Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, yourself..."

"You couldn't have missed anyone."

He stops pacing for a moment. "Sebastian had his own network," says Sherlock, eyes widening slightly. "Perhaps it only consists of one person, but that one person is ready to carry out the job. He had jobs before this one, but snipers don't really care if people they know get killed, do they? It was someone he knew, then, perhaps a relative, someone who cared for him."

"Brother?" John suggests.

Sherlock's eyes lit up. "Military, he was in the military, John. He went under a different name there, though."

"Who is it?"

John had missed this side of Sherlock so much the last three years.

"Samuel Thomas, I believe it was," he replies, mind racing.

"Great. Who's he? And we really need to get Lestrade out of here, Sherlock," John reminds him, worried the sniper is still waiting around to strike again.

"Yes, we do. Mycroft has a car on the way, I'm sure you'll appreciate it, Lestrade," he remarks offhandedly.  Turning his attention back to John, "He was his captain. They were friends, best friends. Supposedly, Sebastian died. It was a mistake that he took advantage of, and he changed careers, I suppose you could say. Now Samuel has been given a story, a story about how his friend actually was recently killed. He wants revenge; Sebastian obviously left a journal, a phone, something to let him know."

"But... Sherlock, _we_ killed Sebastian a few hours ago." John freezes, horrified.

"Obviously not," sighs Sherlock, his mobile buzzing. He checks it, the sweeps silently from the office, beckoning for John and Lestrade to follow. He leads Lestrade out to the sleek black car that is waiting for him. Sherlock looks at John, nodding at the car. "If I asked you nicely, would you get into the car?" He knows the answer before he finishes the question.

"Not on your life."

"I figured as much," he says with a sigh. "Lestrade, we'll be seeing you soon." Sherlock shuts the door and watches the car drive away.

"So, wait, did we kill Sebastian or Samuel?" John asks his silent friend.

Sherlock turns to John and says, "Sebastian is dead. He left something for Samuel. He knew he was going to die beforehand."

"Got it. So, where is Samuel? I'm sure you've already figured it out"

Sherlock stops dead where he is, tugging John's sleeve back before they round the corner. "That car has bullet-proof windows, so Lestrade's safe. He isn't after Lestrade. That gives us two people, you realize."

"Wait, what?" John's startled by the sudden movement and Sherlock keeps jumping ahead

Sherlock takes out his mobile, typing busily. "Sebastian's note was obviously quite detailed. He likely wrote that he was about to be killed by me, and named you, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson. I should wonder if Moriarty didn't know Samuel as well. Anyways, the point is that we are in a very similar situation. This man, however, has no hidden intentions: he simply wants revenge for his friend's death, and he thinks we are responsible. Do you understand?"

John nods. "Christ. I probably should have gone with Lestrade, huh? Save you the added strain."

"That's why I asked, yes." He pauses, adding momentarily, "No one's at the flat now, meaning Mrs. Hudson is safe for the time being. He's likely around here, watching. You've your gun, don't you?"

"Of course." John draws it, flicking the safety off. "Sherlock, if you die-"

"I'm not going to die," he interrupts, "but neither are you. Now, wait here a moment. There are dozens of cameras that can be easily manipulated, so keep your eye on them as I go forward. I don't think Samuel's that smart, however, I honestly think he just wants revenge. Still, no point in taking risks if we can figure out if we're being watched or not."

John nods, eyeing the cameras. After a moment, "They aren't following us, so I think we're-" John spots a shadow in the alley. "The alley!" he hisses.

Sherlock removes the safety from his own gun, drawing John further away from the alley with him. "If it's the same gun, it's quite powerful. He hasn't seen us yet I don't believe." Sherlock's mobile buzzes, and he takes it out of his pocket.

"What is it?" John's eyes are darting everywhere, trying to make sure Sherlock is covered.

Sherlock scans back over the text one last time, sliding his mobile back into the pocket. "I promised myself that I would not keep secrets from you any longer after all of this, so I'll explain to you quickly. The cameras are turned off. Don't turn around, but the man over there, the man who is supposed to be a guard for the Yard, is not. He's Samuel's brother. There is a cab coming. Both of the men are going to get into the cab, along with myself. Follow it."

"Sherlock-" John starts to protest but a single look from the detective shuts him up.

"Please." He takes John's mobile quickly, pressing a few buttons. "They can't track your texts now, so it's safe for you to text whomever it is you need to. If anyone asks you where you're going, say you're going back to the flat, and that I ran off, saying I needed to think for a bit. Follow the car if you'd like, but do not come in without warning, or else they'll kill us both. Understand?"

John nods, and kisses Sherlock quick and hard. "What are you planning to do?"

"Explain things to them. If we're lucky, they'll listen. If not, I have my gun for a reason." He pauses, adding, "Do try and be safe."

"Same to you." John watches Sherlock head for the cab, waiting very impatiently in the shadows.

oOoOo

Sherlock strides up to the cab, getting in after the two men before they can shut the door. "No point in asking where we're going, I suppose?"he asks.

The first man, Samuel, shakes his head, looking absolutely livid. "You killed a man tonight in cold blood," he spits.

"I wasn't the sniper, actually, that would be him," Sherlock replies. The car takes a sharp turn, and Sherlock asks calmly, "So, what did it say? The note, the text, the message, whatever it was. Did it say that I was a fake? A liar? A killer? Sebastian Moran, or Tyler, as I believe you knew him, was trained sniper. He wanted me dead, so he left you that note."

With little warning, Samuel lurches forward. Sherlock draws his gun, and feels a sharp prick in his arm. Then, everything fades.


	3. Rescue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will John be in time to rescue Sherlock from Moran's brother? Or will the detective die for real this time?

John follows the cab easily, the traffic around the Yard terribly congested. It finally stops outside an abandoned apartment a few blocks away, and John almost screams when he sees Sherlock's limp body hauled from the cab by one of the men; he guesses it's Samuel. The other heads for the back of the building, so John follows him.

The army doctor watches the other man closely, sizing him up. _He looks like me_ , John thinks, suddenly having an idea. Waiting until the man is looking the other way, John hits him on the head and trades clothes with him. Now dressed like Samuel's brother, John hauls the semi-conscious man into the building.

He drags the man up the stairs, stopping when he finds handcuffs in his pocket. Snapping the cuffs on the brother's wrists, John rips a strip off of his undershirt to gag him. His ears are straining for any sound that will lead him to Sherlock, finally pinpointing the detective's voice.

Continuing to drag the brother down the corridor, John finally stops outside of one of the doors, listening intently. _Found you_ , he thinks.

John opens the door. "I have his accomplice," he says, holding up the brother he had dressed in his clothes.

oOoOo

Sherlock is vaguely aware of his surroundings. He is aware of movement, of noise, and of colors blurred together. He can feel himself being tied up, and knows in the back of his mind that if he can explain things, he can stop the men from killing anyone. "I'm not... a killer," he says, his words slurred, his vision fading in and out; the detective shakes his head, trying to break out of the drug-induced haze. Another prick in his arm. "Damn it, stop doing that!" he mutters, blinking hard. "Let me... let me talk."

The man he can just make out looks thoroughly disgusted. "Why should I let you talk?" he demands, yet another needle filled with drugs in his hand. "Why the hell should I let you?"

"He... he had... had to die," Sherlock mutters.

Another prick. Everything is spinning, and Sherlock feels sick. "He's not... he didn't..." Sherlock tries to string together a sentence as the man peers down at him, a terrible smile on his face. "John." The word slips out. 

"Well, you're paying for it now, aren't you?"

oOoOo

"I have his accomplice."

Sherlock blinks hard, trying to understand what is going on around him. His vision is now gone completely, but he's certain the voice is John's. The words, however, don't make sense in his mind.

Samuel nods, barely looking away from Sherlock. "Good. Just put him down. We'll take care of him later. This one first."

John drops the man and strides forward. "What have you done so far?" he asks.

"I think we're on the third round now. Should be enough," he answers, wearing a terrible smirk.

Sherlock can feel his muscles starting to shake as panic races through him. He isn't sure whether or not his eyes are open or closed.

"Remind me, enough for what?" Without warning, John tackles the Samuel, jamming his gun underneath the man's chin.

Samuel's eyes widen in surprise. Still, he is unable to reach for his own gun. "Nothing," he snarls, glaring at John.

"What did you give him? NOW or I blow your brains onto this floor."

"Cocaine and prescription drugs mixed together," spits the man angrily. "Why should I care if you do shoot me?" he snarls, glaring at John.

John flicks the safety off. "So you can tell Sebastian 'Hi' from John and Sherlock when you see him."

John pulls the trigger, firing an extra round in the man's heart for good measure. He rises and shoots the other man where he lies before untying Sherlock. He calls 999 and gives the address, explaining what he can as he holds Sherlock upright in the chair. Once he hangs up, he focuses on getting the detective out. "Stay with me, Sherlock. Please, stay with me."

Sherlock grips tightly onto whatever he can, only aware that it is John that is speaking to him, and that a gun was just fired. He can't work out why, or what any of it means, except that John was the one shooting. "Fine?" he asks, his voice barely audible.

John lifts the detective into his arms. "You'll be fine." John can hear the sirens as he carries Sherlock from the building. "They're gone, and you'll be at the hospital very soon. It... won't be very pleasant. I'm sorry, but I'll make sure they look at your leg too." He's starting to babble, but he's terrified that Sherlock is dying and that he's too late.

"You fine?" Sherlock asks again, not processing John's words. He can feel himself shutting down.

"Yes, yes I'm fine. DON'T SHUT YOUR EYES!" The ambulance pulls up as John reaches the sidewalk. He explains what Sherlock has been given and holds the man's hand the entire ride to the hospital.

Sirens. Sherlock feels as if the sirens are wailing directly in his ears, and there's so much damn noise, he wants it to stop. He feels like he's on fire, but he knows that doesn't make sense. He catches glimpses of things happening around him, not understanding any of it, but trying to remember what John told him: don't shut your eyes.

When they reach the hospital, the doctors try to force John to stay in the waiting room, but he explains he is Sherlock's personal doctor and they let him in; he doesn't mention that they're unofficial boyfriends, not caring if that is breaking the rules. John tends to Sherlock's leg while the others work on the drugs, praying that they are in time.


	4. Hospital

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waking up safe, Sherlock takes stock of all the situations around him. He just wants to go home.

For a while, there is nothing; then, what seems like moments (but is, in reality hours) later, Sherlock opens his eyes, wincing at the blindingly bright hospital walls.

"Sherlock?" John sees his friend's eyes flicker and open, squinting against the lights. John dims the ones in the room, returning to the bed and holding Sherlock's hand. "Thank God, oh Jesus Christ, thank God, you're ok"

The detective blinks hard several times as the room comes into focus. If the sterile white walls, harsh lights, and beeping machines aren't enough to tell Sherlock was in a hospital, the look on John's face is. "Why?" he asks, his voice hoarse.

"Samuel gave you cocaine mixed with prescription drugs, at least three syringes worth. It's a wonder you're alive. I thought-" John stops and breathes, "I thought you were going to die all over again. They tried to make me stay in the waiting room, but you're in luck that I happen to be a doctor. I didn't mention our... relationship or give them your real name. No worries there. I told them you were a distant cousin who got attacked. And you're leg is fine. Stitched up perfectly now and should heal just fine." John adds as an afterthought.

"Oh," says Sherlock simply, his mind still not quite working at its usual pace. His memory is clouded, but he decides it's because of the vast amount of drugs he's had in his system. "Thank you."

"Of course." John squeezes the detective's hand gently. "They're going to keep you here for a few days, tests and such. I- I told them you had a slight history with cocaine, so at least they can plan. The withdrawal hasn't been pretty so far."

"How long have I been here?" he asks. His head pounds, and he shakes slightly. "It was cocaine you said?"

"A day and a half, and yes, I did."

"A day and a half?" asks Sherlock with a slight frown.

"You went through the major stuff within the first 12 hours, but then you weren't waking up." John chokes, feeling Sherlock's tremors. "All the monitors said you were fine, but... I thought-" John breaks off, fighting back tears to no avail.

"I wouldn't leave," he says quietly. "You can be upset, you know."

John nods. "I don't like you seeing me like this. I'm not used to this." Then "Can I kiss you? I think some part of me still needs to know you're here. All the years of being apart, you know."

Sherlock smiles slightly. "Of course," he replies, his voice gentle.

John stands up, bracing himself against the bed as he leans over, caressing Sherlock's lips with his own

Despite the wires, the pain, the shaking, Sherlock can't remember ever feeling quite so happy. "And you're all right?" he asks, leaning away from John, studying him. "I can't recall if I've asked, but I need to ask again, I suppose."

John smiles, studying the detective, fingertips brushing his cheekbone. "You did, actually, as I carried you out of the building. You didn't ask about the men or yourself, but you asked if I were fine. I am, by the way. Because right now, you're alive, we're safe, and I'm with you."

"Don't remember asking, but glad I did just the same. It goes without saying that I'm quite glad you're fine, as well." He pauses, a particularly violent tremor running through him. "How long, do you think?" he asks, hands clenched.

John's brow creases. "Not long I should think. Like I said, most of it happened in the first 12 hours, and it's been 36 now. I won't go anywhere. Promise."

"Good. Thank you." He stops a moment, listening. "Lestrade and Mycroft are here, too, I suppose," he says, nodding at the door.

"Yeah, well." John grins, really grins this time, "I wish you could have seen them when they first arrived."

"Oh, God, why?" the detective asks, smiling.

"Because they had so obviously finished shagging each other's brains out from relief that Lestrade was ok. Lestrade still had bedroom eyes, and Mycroft looked like he wanted to drag Lestrade into the nearest closet and do him again."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Glad I missed that. You just had to share your suffering, though, didn't you?" He pauses, smirking, as he calls out, "If you're quite finished snogging out there, you could come in and actually talk!"

There's a thump and a curse on the other side of the door. "Sod off, Sherlock," Lestrade calls. There's a long moment where John and Sherlock share very smug grins before Lestrade and Mycroft enter, finally seeming to realize that Sherlock is awake.

Sherlock laughs as the two come in, smiling at Lestrade's response. "Lovely to see you again as well," Sherlock says with a roll of his eyes.

Lestrade glares, his face flushed; Mycroft, as always, looks like there are multiple pastries stuck up his arse. "And how are we today, _little brother_ ," he sneers, his concern for Sherlock barely concealed beneath his snide manner.

"Oh, better, I'd say," answers Sherlock, his voice dripping with sweetness. "Perhaps you could pull one of your government tricks and allow them to release me a tad bit early," he suggests with a slight smile.

"Only if you are clean," Mycroft replies, deliberately not looking at Lestrade. "As soon as we get your most recent blood tests back, we shall see."

Sherlock snorts. "I think that, since I am not the one who administered the drugs, that it shouldn't count as not clean." He glances at Lestrade, asking with a hint of teasing in his voice, "All right then, Lestrade?"

"Sod off," Lestrade repeats, face flushing once more. Then he turns to Mycroft. Big mistake, he almost can't speak. "You really should release him. John will care for him, right John?"

"Oh, yes, of course, absolutely." John fights back a snicker, managing at the last second to turn it into a cough.

"'Sod off'? Not, 'oh, thank you so very much, Sherlock, you're the world's greatest consulting detective'? I'm disappointed, Lestrade, I expected better of you," Sherlock can barely keep from laughing hiself. "However, I suppose I'll forgive you if you can convince my brother _dearest_ to have me released."

Lestrade swallows hard before saying, "Yes, of course, _thank you_!"

John and Sherlock burst out laughing at this as Mycroft has chosen this precise moment to brush up against Lestrade, clearly squeezing his bum through his trousers.

"All right, that's it, I demand to be let out of this place immediately," Sherlock says through fits of laughter. "I can't take this place any longer, can you John?"

"No, I can't. And unless the head of the British Government wants some pretty serious blackmail, he'd better let us out."

Mycroft grins at Lestrade before turning back to Sherlock and John, expression sobering while is eyes remain light. "Yes, fine, all right? I'll go speak to the doctors immediately." He sweeps out of the room, Lestrade following, trying not to look to eager and failing miserably.

This just makes John and Sherlock laugh harder.

"They're terrible," says Sherlock with a shake of his head. "I pity you for having to have seen them a few hours ago."

"Don't, it brightened my day to see Lestrade so embarrassed. Took my mind off your condition for ten seconds."

After a few minutes, Mycroft enters the room again, along with a few nurses. 

"Thank you so very much," Sherlock says with a smile.

Walking out of the hospital, Sherlock is still a little unsteady on his feet, gripping onto John's arm as they leave.


	5. Recovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Between the press and an unexpected visit from Harry, it's been a very tiring day

John hails them a cab, helping Sherlock in and giving the cabbie their address. Sitting in the cab, Sherlock closed his eyes momentarily. "I get the feeling we were interrupting them or something," he says with a slight grin.

John snorts, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. "You know, I think we were."

"Nonetheless, I suppose Mycroft was useful to have around. He can be helpful when he wants to be." The cab comes to a stop, and the two step out of the car. Almost immediately, Sherlock is blinded by a quick flash of light. All at once, dozens of people seem to be surrounding them.  
"Forgot I was supposed to be dead. Twice," he remarks, his head spinning a bit, still gripping tightly to John.

John forges a path through the sea of reporters, shielding Sherlock as much as he can. Thankfully, Mrs. Hudson lets them in, and John helps her shut the door. He collapses against it, sighing in relief. "Yeah, I'd kind of forgotten that too.."

Sherlock smiles slightly. In the silence, the sound of reporters asking questions to a closed door can be heard. "Well, I suppose that was an easy way of doing it, very little work on our part."

"What, bringing you back from the dead?"

"Yes. Can't wait to see the tabloids tomorrow," he answers with a roll of his eyes.

John chuckled. "'Fake Detective Fakes Own Death.' Should be riveting."

"Oh, yes, I'm supposed to be fake as well. Marvelous." He pauses, and then asks, "Up to the flat, I suppose? We'll have to see about steps, I'm not quite certain how well I can manage those at the moment," he admits sheepishly.

"I can carry you if you want... I did carry you out of the other building..."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "Yes, you do need to tell me about what happened with all of that, as I still can't quite remember it all. I say we try the steps as we are, and see how it goes."

John nods. He puts one of Sherlock's arms around his shoulders and starts to help the detective up the stairs one at a time

After a few near-falls, the two manage to make it into the flat in one piece. Sherlock takes a seat in his chair, rubbing his temples. "Would you mind telling me, then? What happened? I remember getting into the car, and that's about it."

John starts to make them some tea, taking a seat in his own chair as the water boils. He doesn't look at Sherlock as he speaks, his mind going back to that evening. "I followed the cab to the building only to see them carry you in. I went around to the back and knocked out Samuel's brother who was on watch. When I realized we looked very similar, I switched clothes with him. Using him as me, I hauled him inside and used him to gain entrance to the room where you were being held." The kettle starts to boil, so John pours them each a cup of Earl Grey, putting honey in Sherlock's. He gives the detective his cup. "You were barely conscious, so I tackled Samuel and made him tell me what he gave you. Then I shot him and his accomplice, untied you, called 999, and got you to the hospital."

Sherlock stares at John for a few moments, taking the tea. "Impressive. That was quite clever, what you did. I thought..." He squints, concentrating. "You claimed to be him, didn't you? The other man? I couldn't see very well, but I thought it was you then." He pauses, and then says, "Thank you."

"Yeah, I did. And you're welcome. I wondered how much you were able to hear or understand. When my gun went off you looked like you were concentrating really hard. I just-for a moment I-I thought I was going to lose you again."

Sherlock shakes his head slightly. "I think I could hear a bit, just not quite understand everything. I suppose it's a good thing, in a way, that I've taken drugs before. Though I'm not particularly looking forward to the crash on this one."

"I'm here, and I'm going to take care of you." John sips his own tea, cursing as he realizes how hot it still it. "Damn it! Never thought I'd be grateful for your tolerance to drugs."

Sherlock chuckles quietly as he takes a sip of his own tea. "Do we know what kind of prescription drugs they were? Rather odd mix, if you ask me."

John thinks about it for a moment. "Well, from what the tests showed, it seemed to be a mix of Tylenol, Ibuprofen, Zanex, and something else in addition to the cocaine."

The detective sighs, leaning back in his seat. "Yes, this'll be quite fun. The physical part of it seems to be over, at least for the most part." He pauses, and then adds seriously, "If you're ever considering using drugs, I wouldn't advise it at all. It's really not all that fun."

"So, what usually happens to you in withdrawal?"

"Physically or emotionally speaking?" he questions.

"Both"

"Physically, the shaking, dizziness, sometimes vomiting. Of course, in cases like this, you've already seen the physical side of it," Sherlock explains.

"Yes, and you went through a good portion of that in the first twelve hours like I said"

"Exactly. Emotionally... it depends. If it was just cocaine, there'd be a sense of euphoria initially. Obviously, we're quite past that point, as it didn't happen in the first place. After that... it's quite difficult to explain," he says with a sigh. "You don't feel very well, about anything. Nothing seems good, even if it is, and you don't very much like yourself. As I said, it's difficult to explain."

 **"** Any idea how long it will last?" John watches Sherlock, seeing the tremors his friend is trying to hide.

He shrugs slightly, trying his hardest to stop the tremors. "Depends, I suppose. With a moderate dosage, the whole thing lasts about twenty-four hours. I'd hope it'd end soon, but it feels as if it's just beginning to start, unfortunately. How much was I given?"

"At least three syringes worth. There may have been a fourth." John takes the tea and sets it down. "Should I get you to your room?"

Sherlock shakes his head, his hands clenched. "I don't think that'd be best as of now, actually. Perhaps we could just talk for a bit out here. I don't...don't particularly want to be alone at the moment, if you don't mind."

"I wasn't suggesting you be alone. I'll stay with you where ever you are. I just... want to make sure you were comfortable first." John could tell that it was going to be a long couple of days. "What would you like to talk about?"

"Whatever you'd like." Sherlock pauses, frowning slightly as footsteps ascend. The door opens, and he relaxes slightly as he sees Harry Watson enter the flat.

"When the _hell_ were you planning on telling me all of this?" she demands, glancing from Sherlock to John. "And you--what's wrong with you? Do you have _any_ idea-?!"

John jumps up. "Harry!" He stops her moving towards Sherlock. "Look, I can explain if you'll give me a minute-"

"After everything, he thinks he can just _show up_ here?" she yells, glaring accusingly at Sherlock.

"HARRY! It's not his fault. Look, just sit down and I'll explain. I'll even get you a cup of tea."

Harry sits down, her gaze still fixed angrily on Sherlock. "Better have a good reason after he nearly offed himself," she growls under her breath.

"Lovely to meet you as well," Sherlock says shortly, taking a drink of his own tea. "I wouldn't recommend drinking before coming to the flat next time, however, it does upset John."

She opens her mouth to speak, but John comes in before either of them can say anything.

"You shut up and rest," he glares at Sherlock. John hands Harry her tea and sits down. "He did it to protect me. I was going to be murdered if he didn't. Then I was going to follow him a few days ago, but he came back and stopped me. Okay, Harry?" He's being far nice to his sister than he has any right to be with her showing up drunk, not that he expects anything different from her anymore.

Harry's eyes widen slightly. Then, she asks in a low voice, "You're sure about all of that?"

Sherlock scoffs, setting his tea cup down. "You had two beers before coming to the flat, trying to sedate your nerves. Didn't work, obviously. Before that, you were speaking with Clara, and you were over at her flat, with her dog. You checked your mobile, as you often do, and saw the news on one of the tabloids." He smirks slightly at her baffled expression. "Problem?" 

"That-that doesn't mean that you did all of that," she stammers, clearly shaken. John can remember now why he'd never introduced them before Sherlock's fall.

"Harry, I trust him. Now I see why I've never really let the two of you spend time together. A few days ago, we managed to get rid of some very dangerous people, and Sherlock was severely drugged in the process. He's been in the hospital, and now I'm taking care of him here." John glares at Sherlock again. "Do you really have to wind her up? I'll have to separate you two before long." Then to Harry, "I owe him my life and he owes me his. And really? _Why_ were you at Clara's? You know that it just makes you worse because you two fight."

"I'm not trying to wind her up, I'm simply stating the facts," answers Sherlock. He stands up, walking a bit unsteadily into his room, violin and bow in hand. Music floats quietly through the flat.

"Yes, I was at Clara's, and it's none of your business." She sighs, and then says, "I just want you to be sure, y'know? He really did a number on you for a while, and maybe you trust him, but I'm only looking out for you.

"Yeah, well, if you laid off the booze, you'd be doing us both a favor," John mutters, distracted by the violin. Sherlock had tuned it the other day but hadn't played it yet since his return. The music is sad and sweet, both a welcome home and an apology in one. "And yes, maybe he did do a number on me, but how would you feel if the love of your life seemed to have killed himself, herself in your case."

Harry frowns. "I get that, but three years, John? It just seems like a cruel joke to me."

After a moment, Sherlock walks out of his room, throwing a needle and small bag of drugs on the table. "Don't give me that look, it's from years ago, not recently. Do what you will with it." Then, he proceeds back into his room, shutting the door and continuing the music.

John chucks the bag in the bin without having to think about it. "Why are you here, Harry? He doesn't want to be alone, and now he's gone off by himself. Explain yourself or leave. AND, if you must know, he was making sure that any threat towards me was gone before coming back." John doesn't mention how he slightly screwed up that part of the plan, bringing Sherlock back ahead of schedule, but he doesn't care; he's too angry with his sister.

"I'm here to make sure that you're all right, and that he isn't just going to do what he did again," she retorts. She sighs, and then says, "Listen, I'll leave the two of you alone now. If he did what you say he did... well, he's something, then. I just don't want you getting hurt again."

"Worry about yourself first," John replies, itching to check on Sherlock. "He won't again. I promise you that."

She rolls her eyes, heading out of the flat. "Fine. Call me sometime, okay?"

"Fine." John watches her go before bolting to Sherlock's room. He opens the door, stopping short, listening to the music. Vivaldi, no, Beethoven? The music is so hauntingly sweet and achingly familiar that John finds himself on the floor without knowing how he got there. He starts to cry, the music stirring up all of his repressed emotions and starting to heal them, bit by bit.

Sherlock stops playing once he finishes the song, unaware, momentarily, of his surroundings. He sets the violin and bow down once he sees John. "Are you all right?" he questions confusedly.

It takes John a moment to realize Sherlock has stopped playing. "Yeah, I'm- fine," he mumbles, not moving, wiping his eyes on his jumper. "Harry's gone. We're alone again." He sniffles, trying to compose himself once more.

Sherlock nods, taking a seat on the edge of his bed, his feet brushing against John. "Good," he says, his mind wandering.

John hauls himself up so he is sitting next to Sherlock. "How are you holding up? I'm sorry she barged in, I didn't know she was going to-"

"I don't mind her too much. She'd be fun to have a conversation with some other time." He shrugs, leaning against John. "Tired. I don't like myself very much at the moment."

John strokes Sherlock's head, letting it rest on his shoulder. "Why not?"

"I just don't," he answers simply. "Things I wish I'd have done differently. It's stupid, really, to be thinking about them now, but I suppose that doesn't stop me from thinking of them."

"Shhhhhhhh," John whispers, now rocking Sherlock gently, holding him. "That'll be the withdrawal talking. I'm here, I'm not going anywhere. Focus on here, focus on me."

"You handle these things much... much better than Mycroft used to, you know," the detective remarks in a quiet voice.

"Christ, I can't imagine having Mycroft take care of me...oh wait, yeah I can. I wasn't kidding when you first texted me. After your fall, he really didn't trust me with a knife and fork. Those plastic ones _suck._ "

Sherlock shakes slightly, a look of remorse on his face. "I'm sorry, you know," he says sincerely.

"Don't you _dare_ apologize right now. I was trying to make you laugh. I know you're sorry." John can tell the tremors are getting worse. "Here we go," he whispers, bracing Sherlock in his arms.

Sherlock smiles slightly despite himself. "I was a bit disappointed not to see our dearest friend Kitty out there with the rest of the press," Sherlock says, leaning away from John a bit as the tremors worsen.

John lays Sherlock down on the bed, lying next to his detective, continuing to hold him. "She disappeared about eighteen months ago. Cold case."

"Oh? We'll have to... have to look into that," he mutters, his voice drifting slightly.

"Later. Sleep now. I'll stay here with you."

"Thank you, John," he says just before falling asleep.

John watches Sherlock relax and fall asleep before drifting off himself.


	6. Where Do We Stand?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just trying to take stock of how their relationship is progressing

The following week, after the press has started, at least, to calm down, Sherlock takes a seat in his chair, anxious for a case. "I feel like Lestrade's avoiding us now," he remarks, a slight smirk on his face.

"Well, we did embarrass him pretty badly before. Plus, now you know about him and Mycroft. He's probably terrified of what you'll say about them." John smiles back, relieved that Sherlock has had two good days in a row and finally seems to be in the clear.

"Again, not our fault," he replies with a sigh. Casually, he questions, "Do you see a point in marriage, John?"

John chokes, pounding on his chest as he tries to cough up the spit he's sucked into his lungs. "What-what did you say?" he gasps, staring open mouthed at Sherlock.

"Marriage," he repeats calmly. "Is there a point of it? For us?"

"Sherlock, you've been back tendays... we've kissed two, maybe three times. Where did the question of marriage come from?"

He shrugs, trying his hardest to act unoffended. "I don't know. It doesn't have to happen at all. It's simply a question."

John can see he's hurt him. "You caught me by surprise, is all," he says, sitting in his chair to face the detective.

"I simply meant if you see a point in it, practically speaking," he says, trying his hardest to explain his thought process (it isn't easy.) "I should like to spend the rest of my life with you, but do we need a paper to say that?" Sherlock can feel his face grow warm, and he feels terribly childish and stupid.

John reaches out and takes Sherlock's hand. "All we have to do is talk about it, and I know that's difficult for you." He feels his own face blush at the prospect of spending the rest of his life with Sherlock, thrilled by the idea. "I will do whatever you want me to, you know that. If you feel we need a piece of paper, we'll get one. If you just want to agree to be exclusive, we can do that too."

Sherlock smiles slightly, feeling significantly less stupid. "I'm fine with how things are now, if that's all right. Perhaps my thoughts will change, about the paper part, but not the rest. I was only asking to see if you'd prefer one thing or another."

John's free hand strokes Sherlock's face. "You're the genius here. It's always been up to you."

"Well, I want you to have a say in things as well, of course," he replies with a smile. "Wouldn't be fair for me to say one thing or another."

"Yes, well..." John trails off, just enjoying Sherlock's warm gaze. "I'm always afraid I'll want to go too fast for you."

"Yes, well, I'm still figuring things out. However, I don't want to rush into things." He pauses, smirking slightly as he realizes that marriage, somehow, in his mind, did not qualify as "rushing things."

"What? What's so amusing?"

"Relationships. Everything."

John smiles. "Well, we can take things as slow or as fast as you want. Like I said before, it's all up to you. Really."

"And as I said before, I'm not quite sure that's fair. Nonetheless, where we are now, is quite fine with me. If you'd prefer one thing or another, though, you really should let me know," he says.

"I'm the one who has done this before, Sherlock. It's generally the gentlemanly thing to do to let the less-experienced person set the pace..." John realizes what he just said. "No, wait, aw... fuck."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow, saying nothing in reply.

"Apparently, I'm crap at words today." John drops his hand from Sherlock's face, using it to rest his head.

"Evidently," he says, a blank expression on his face. "It's true, nonetheless."

"What's true?"

"That I haven't done this before. Any of it," he replies, not just referring to the obvious, but every little aspect of their relationship.

John looks Sherlock in the eye again, struggling to read the detective's expression. "What is it that _you_  want, Sherlock?"

"I don't exactly know, to be perfectly honest," he replies. "I want to "be good" at relationships, but I'm afraid I don't know how. I'm over-thinking it, I suspect," he says with a sigh. "Yourself?"

"Honestly?" John feels his face grow hot once again. "I've wanted to sleep with you since you got back."

Sherlock nods, feeling his stomach twist and turn. It isn't that he isn't attracted to John- far from it- however, he is not certain he's ready for that. The closeness and intimacy scares him.

John sees the change in Sherlock's expression. "I told you to take it at your own pace, you sod."

"Yes, I'm aware," he says with a roll of his eyes. "Simply thinking. Problem?"

"Nope, no problem. You just... fascinate me."

"That's not what most people say," Sherlock says, a smirk on his face. "Of course, you're quite aware of what most people say, aren't you? Nor are you 'most people', thankfully."

John smiles, starting to laugh. "If I remember rightly, most people say 'Piss off,' and I would certainly hope I'm not most people."


	7. Kitty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, there's always the open case of Kitty Rilley if Sherlock is hankering for something to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ends with shameless fluff

"Where was she last seen?" asks Sherlock, standing in Lestrade's office, John beside him. He isn't sure why, but something about Kitty's case has been bothering him.

Lestrade looks at the file. "Her neighbor saw her go into her flat. She never came back out. We searched the place and there was nothing. No sign of a struggle, no fingerprints, nothing."

"And that was it with the investigation?" questions Sherlock with a shake of his head. "Surely you were asked to look into it by her parents more. Nothing was found, then, when you did look into it. Time passed. What then?" Sherlock pauses, and then asks, "Did her parents ever contact you again? Recently?"

"About eighteen months ago," John pipes up. Lestrade nods. "Yeah, we stopped looking then, and her parents called right after the tabloids went nuts with stories of your return. Brilliant job with that, by the way." Sarcasm drips from the DI's voice, even though he knows it is very dangerous to provoke Sherlock right now.

Sherlock rolls his eyes, discarding the last comment. "They had to have had some sort of contact with her, then. Parents like that don't just give up unless they think things are okay again." He thinks things over for a moment longer and says, "We'll be speaking to them first, then."

"You really think they'll want to speak with _you_? Your expose was the last thing she ever wrote."

"I think if they'd like to find out what happened to their daughter, then yes, they would," Sherlock replies.

"Don't tell me you know." Lestrade is surprised that he's forgotten how pompous Sherlock could be on a case. And John is just standing there, watching the detective.

"I've several ideas, yes. Obviously they received contact of some sort, stating that she was fine, off doing something else. Someone has her, then, alive, presumably." Sherlock looks at Lestrade and says after a moment, "They were so relieved to hear anything, they believed it. They just didn't want to believe she was dead."

Lestrade writes down the parents' address and hands it to the detective. "Here, just don't terrorize them, Sherlock."

"I would never terrorize anyone, Lestrade, where on earth do you get such an idea," says Sherlock, snatching up the paper with the address. "Tell Mycroft 'hello' for me, won't you?" he asks, walking out the door with a smirk.

"Sorry," John whispers as he hurries after Sherlock. When he catches up, he pokes the detective in the shoulder. "We really need to set some boundaries for the two of you now. He won't be able to leave his office for at least a half an hour."

"Perhaps he shouldn't be so terribly obvious then," Sherlock replies as they step into a cab. "I do suspect that Lestrade was right, however; they likely won't be too pleased to see me."

John follows Sherlock, gently taking the detective's hand as they ride through London; both had agreed this was perfectly fine. "No, I don't think they will be happy to see you. Things could turn ugly fast."

Sherlock glances out the window as the cab approached the quaint house. "I suppose we'll figure it out soon, then."

John sighs. "Here we go." He follows Sherlock out of the cab and knocks on the door. "You may want to step back a bit," he murmurs to the detective.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow in question. "Really, John, I doubt they'll be-" Before he can finish, the door swings open, and the two are met with a very livid looking man and woman.

"Told you so," John whispers as Kitty's father began to speak.

"What the bloody hell do _you_ want?"

"To figure out what happened with your daughter's disappearance, and where she is now." Sherlock pauses, glancing through the door. "You believe she's taken a new job in America. You're mistaken, I'm afraid," he says.

John watched the shock and anger on Kitty's parents' faces. "How could you _possibly_ know that?" her mom asks. John watches Sherlock, expecting his usual onslaught of details but is surprised when the detective is more compassionate than usual.

"Where's the letter? I assume it's a letter, a text or an email wouldn't be very personal for something as important as this," Sherlock says. "I know that your daughter would not simply leave, especially after such a big break. You know that as well, though. No one has seen or heard from from her in eighteen months, and the only bit of contact you've gotten is one letter. You're simply believing what you want to believe," he explains.

"It's- it's on the fridge-"

Sherlock walks into the house and glances at the note. "Have you anything else she's written?" he asks. He notices that Kitty's mother seems much less upset than her father, who still seems very disbelieving.

"There's a portfolio with her earlier works in the living room... why?"

"I'd like to have something to compare this to, just to verify that this is not, in fact, her handwriting," he replies, biting back a sharp remark.

Kitty's mother gets the portfolio and brings it to Sherlock. "Here's one of the first things she wrote, got sent back unopened, but it never stopped her trying."

Sherlock rolls his eyes but says nothing. He examines the handwriting with the same and shakes his head. "Obviously she didn't write this. Clearly someone did not do their research."

Kitty's dad rounds on the detective. "Oh yeah? What makes you so sure, Mr. Fake Detective?"

John freezes, eyes wide. _Here we go_...

"Kitty's crosses her 't's' quite distinctly, this person does not. This person, more than likely a male, leans down much more heavily while writing, and she does not. Of course, there's the fact that this paper is from a government office in Spain, and I'm not certain how she'd get a hand on that in France, do you?" asks Sherlock, his expression neutral. "Any more questions? Because you're wasting my time."

Now John's head is spinning, although he has difficulty not chuckling at the looks of shock on Kitty's father's face. "Any idea why she's in France, Sherlock?"

"I hope it's something more exciting than what I think it is," he answers with a shake of his head. "I suspect she was initially abducted. She's obviously had her chance to return, it's been a year and a half. The man who wrote this is French, the paper's from Spain. I really do hope your daughter isn't such an idiot to leave her family for an French ex-sniper."

Kitty's father look positively murderous, but her mother just sighs. "Oh, dear. Well, yes, actually, and she'd very much like to keep things the way they are, understand?"

Kitty's father stares at his wife, mouth agape. Sherlock rolls his eyes, handing both papers back to the mother. "Family secrets do make for marvelous conversation. Unfortunately, I've better things to do with my time, such as, I don't know, solving actual cases." He pauses, and adds with a smug smirk, "I prefer Consulting Detective, thank you very much."

With that, Sherlock sweeps from the flat, John obediently following his boyfriend. "Well, that was a waste. Lestrade will be disappointed you didn't wind up at least concussed, especially after you gave him a hard time before. He and the rest of the Yard are placing bets on how long it will be before a case injures you."

"That was a complete and utter waste of our time," huffs Sherlock in annoyance. "Not only was it boring, it was obvious. And I'd tell Lestrade he'd best watch himself. He's getting a bit over-confident, isn't he?"

"He's just getting laid. And by the British Government. I'd imagine it's giving him quite the ego boost." John smirks as they get into a cab

"That is the last thing he needs," he says with a roll of his eyes. His mobile buzzes, and he takes it out of his pocket, frowning as he reads the text.

"What is it?"

"Would you like to go somewhere other than the flat for a bit? It would appear we've an unwanted visitor on the way," he replies, typing a quick response and placing his phone back in his coat.

"Mycroft?"

"Mycroft is the one who informed me of it, actually," says Sherlock with a sigh, an slightly worried look on his face.

"Who's coming, then? I mean, I have no problem going out for dinner, I'm just curious."

"My father," he replies shortly, his eyes narrowed in thought. "I haven't seen him in years. He isn't very pleased, it would seem, with me returning from the dead."

John blinks several times. "I-it never occurred to me your father was still alive." The doctor thinks for a moment, suddenly really wanting to cheer Sherlock up. "We can go to France if you want to really get away. Or Italy. Probably better seeing as Kitty's in France-"

"Yes, he's still alive." Sherlock interrupts with a sigh, rubbing his temples. "I don't care where we go. I just don't want to see him. Ever."

"Or Antarctica to really make your dad look."

John hopes for a smile; Sherlock looks afraid, truly afraid for the first time in a long time. "If you don't mind my asking, what happened between you two?"

Sherlock drums his fingers against his knees, staring at the floor. "He never liked me. When Mycroft went off to university, I was left alone with him for a bit. He was particularly drunk, and I suppose I said something particularly offensive. It ended with him trying to drown me. I was eleven." Sherlock pauses, deliberately not looking at John. "I never told anyone, but they split apart not long after that, so I didn't figure I needed to. Haven't seen him since."

John is shocked and pulls Sherlock close to his chest before he even realizes what's happening. He strokes Sherlock's head, knowing that it calms the man down. "Take us to the London Eye," he says to the cabbie.

Sherlock glances up at John, listening to his heart beating in his chest. "Thank you," he says simply.

"Don't mention it." They ride in silence to the giant Ferris Wheel, John occasionally pressing light kisses to Sherlock's head. They get out and pay the cabbie, walking over to the attraction hand in hand. John pays the fare and they get in, remarkably the only ones in the car at this hour.

Sherlock isn't sure why, but atop the London Eye, he feels calm, even safe. It's to do with John, he assumes. "You know, I'm quite lucky," he says, his voice quiet.

"Why's that?"

"I have you," he replies, as if the answer is obvious.

John smiles, pulling Sherlock close, wrapping his arms around the taller man's waist. "Then that makes me lucky, too"

"He wasn't invited to the so-called funeral, but I don't think that's why he's upset," Sherlock says, his voice tired.

"Why do _you_ think he's upset then?" John continued to hold Sherlock close.

"He doesn't like what he doesn't understand, I suppose. He doesn't know why or how..." The detective trails off, shrugging. "I don't care, so long as neither of us have to see him."

"Sherlock, we can see all of London from up here. Forget about him. Be here, with me"

Sherlock stops, smiling at the view. "It is nice," he agrees. "I don't think I'd ever like to leave London permanently."

"I can't see you living anywhere else. Sherlock, could we try something?"

"Yes," he answers without asking what.

John slowly starts swaying side to side, staring up at the detective. Sherlock soon starts leaning with him, spinning them slowly on the spot. _I'm dancing with Sherlock Holmes on the London Eye_ , John thinks.

Sherlock laughs quietly at the absurdity of at all, and at how, despite how extremely silly it is, how much he's enjoying it. "You're ridiculous, do you know that?"

John grins. "Yep." He stands on his toes and kisses Sherlock, taking in his smell and warmth while they continue to dance.

Sherlock leans down, placing a light kiss on his army doctor's forehead. "You are, quite easily, the best person I've ever had the pleasure of meeting."

John rests his head against the detective's chest, comforted by his steady heartbeat. 'So are you."


	8. Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner with Mycroft and Greg is anything but sage when the brothers engage in verbal wordplay.

"Sherlock, we're going to be late if you don't hurry up." John is at the door, tapping his foot.

"I really do not want to go to this dinner," sighs Sherlock, reluctantly walking out from his room.

John can't help but stare; since this whole thing started, he has a far greater appreciation for Sherlock in a suit. "Neither do I, but Mycroft will make our lives infinitely more miserable if we don't go. He's not above kidnapping me for days on end."

"Yes, well, I just hope this is quick," Sherlock mutters, giving John a quick peck on the cheek. "You look nice, by the way."

"As do you, and believe me, I'd rather face Moriarty right now than have dinner with your brother... although, did I mention that Greg will be there?" John smiles slightly as he turns to head down the stairs.

Sherlock shuts the door and follows John, eyes lighting up. "You forgot to mention that, actually." He smiles, seeming much happier. "Well, if that's the case, then this may be a tad more interesting than I'd first thought."

"I thought you'd like that." John hails them a cab and gives the address before snuggling against Sherlock. "I suppose I should just go through the formality of telling you to behave tonight, so if Mycroft asks you can say I did warn you."

"Oh, don't act as if I'm the only one who enjoys teasing them," Sherlock says with a shake of his head. "If he asks, you warned me. I'll try and behave, so long as they aren't acting sickeningly together or terribly obvious. It's rather simple."

John chuckles, resting his head on Sherlock's shoulder. "I know, I know. It _is_ nice to tease him just because he can be such an insufferable prat."

"Can be?" asks Sherlock.

"All right, fine, he _is_ an insufferable prat." The cab pulls up outside of Mycroft's lavish apartment. John gets out and pays the cabbie before heading for the door, followed closely by Sherlock. Before they reached it, John turns around and gives Sherlock a quick, loving, smiling kiss. "Here we go."

Sherlock steps into the large home, immediately wishing he can leave. Everything is terribly formal, and the pressure of behaving only makes him want to act out more.

"Hello, you two," says Mycroft with a smile. "Nice of you to come."

"Hello, Mycroft," replies John before Sherlock can make any comments. "Greg here yet?"

"Oh, not quite. He should be within a few minutes," he answers. "Now, allow me to show you to the dining room." Mycroft turns around regally, and Sherlock struggles to suppress his laughter.

"If he twirls anymore, you'll need to put him in a tutu," John whispers in Sherlock's ear as they follow a slightly sashaying Mycroft into the dining room.

Sherlock laughs, causing Mycroft to spin around and give them a questioning look. Sherlock acts  innocent, and the moment his brother turns around, whispers back, "I think he's going to put on the ballet shoes in a bit. Dinner and a show."

John snorts, managing to cough very loudly when Mycroft turns to glare again. "We really should stop," he whispers back.

"You're the one who started it. And _you_ were the one telling _me_ to behave. If Mycroft asked, I warned you," he replies quietly, a smirk still on his face.

John pokes Sherlock in the ribs, right in the spot he knows the detective is most ticklish, practically dancing out of the way when Sherlock retaliates. As they enter the dining room, the doorbell rings.

"I'm going to get you for that one," Sherlock hisses. He gives John a glare as Lestrade enters, miming gagging motions as Mycroft and Lestrade embrace.

John snorts again, struggling to compose himself as Mycroft and Greg turn. "All right there?" he asks.

"Yeah, fine. And you two?" Lestrade replies.

"Couldn't be better," Sherlock says, bowing deeply as Mycroft and Greg turn around for a moment.

"Stop it," John hisses, struggling to keep from laughing as they sit down, Sherlock across from Mycroft, and John across from Lestrade

"So, how've things been?" Mycroft asks John, giving Sherlock a pointed look that demands he not act up for once.

"Good, really good, actually," John replies. "Things have gotten easier and the nightmares are considerably better. The old business is even slowly starting to build again. You?"

Mycroft nods in approval. "Quite well. A few things were straightened out with the government the other day. Less criminals on the street, I suppose you could say."

"Makes my job easier," says Lestrade.

Sherlock presses his lips together, trying hard not to look at John, knowing if he does, he will laugh.

"Winding up with more free time, Greg?" John asks, very innocently. He can feel Sherlock's leg shaking next to his, the detective suppressing comments and laughter with every ounce of will power he has. "More time to spend doing other peop-things?" John catches himself at the last minute, and Sherlock grabs his hand under the table, squeezing it to keep from laughing.

Greg stares uncertainly for a moment, and then says, "Er, well, yeah-"

"You said business was picking up," Mycroft interrupts.

"Oh, yes, it's picking up all right. Is yours as well?" asks Sherlock with a raise of his eyebrows, an innocent expression on his face.

"If you must know, yes," Mycroft's usual sneer back on his face; John always thinks the older Holmes looks like he can constantly smell something nasty (probably burnt cake). John fights to keep a straight face as Mycroft continues. "Of course, it's not anything I can really discuss, but we've managed to put several heads of major crime syndicates away."

A smile spreads across Sherlock's face. "Oh? Well, allow me to congratulate you on the increase of business. As John said, more time for other things, hmm?"

Lestrade is the color of cranberry sauce now, and feeling particularly victimized, he starts to snap. "How about things with you two? See you're still together... with considerably less to do nowadays from what I hear."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "That isn't quite fair, as you're simply repeating what we say. We've gotten quite a few cases as of late, as I'm sure you're aware," Sherlock replies coolly.

"Never said I was repeating what you said, but from the look on John's face, he got my meaning." Lestrade is feeling braver with half a glass of wine in him.

"It's none of your business, Greg," John says quietly, heat rising in his face.

The food is set down, but no one seems to notice.

"Yes, but you were repeating exactly what we said. Nonetheless, at least John and I know not to act terribly obvious," replies Sherlock, not boldened by the wine, as he hadn't had any, but simply being himself.

"Yes, but you don't even seem to realize _why_ you aren't 'terribly obvious,'" Mycroft replies smoothly before fixing Lestrade with a stare that made the entire room uncomfortable, except for, perhaps Sherlock. Mycroft then turns back to his brother. "It has to do with sex," he simpers, repeating his words from the Adler Affair years before.

Sherlock's expression darkens a shade. "I do appreciate you patronizing me, Mycroft, it makes for such lovely conversation, doesn't it?"

"Yes it does. Quite enjoyable in fact, don't you agree, John?"

"No, actually, Mycroft. I don't agree"

Sherlock clenches his jaw. "Apologies, Mycroft, if I'm taking my time. Haven't exactly been able to trust anyone else before, and with good reason," he snaps. "Apologies, I was clearly mistaken in thinking you'd appreciate the fact that I'm capable of trusting someone at all."

"You never trust anyone. Forgive me for being more than skeptical, especially when you pretended to die and broke his heart! Who had to stick around for the past three years, making sure he stayed alive while you went gallivanting off on your little adventures _alone_?"

"Hey, I helped too," Lestrade interjects, but he is silenced by a look from Mycroft.  
  


"We kept him alive for you, and Molly and I were the _only ones_ who knew!"

Sherlock's mind reels for a moment, unable to think. "Yes, because that's what it was, wasn't it? Just a damn picnic, lots of adventures. Oh, never mind the fact that I nearly died a few times and didn't really see anyone for three years. Sorry, next time I'll be sure to make sure he's shot in the head," Sherlock snarls. "Lestrade, you seem to forget that there was a sniper fixed on you as well. And Mrs. Hudson. But I supposed I should've just let Moriarty win the damn game, and then we'd all have been dead one way or another." Sherlock stands up, shoving the chair back and stalking out of the room.

"Thanks, Mycroft, really well done there. Sorry, Greg." John hurries after Sherlock, catching him in the main sitting room. The detective looks furious, angrier than John can ever remember. "Sherlock-"

"I don't know who the hell he thinks he is," Sherlock snarls, shaking he is so angry. "I didn't have a choice, and _he knows that_. I had to bloody write a letter in case I was killed for him to give to you, and he acts-he acts like it was nothing. For fun."

"You wrote a letter?" John asks. "And he knows, but we were also winding him up. You _know_ I don't mind taking this slow. You _know_ I'm looking out for you, and for Christ's sake Sherlock, I _forgive_ you!" John goes to the detective, wrapping his arms around him in a hug. He doesn't care that he risks getting smacked in the face or insulted or yelled at. Sherlock is in pain, and John knows he can comfort him.

"I had... I had to write a letter. It wouldn't have been fair if something had happened and you hadn't known the truth," Sherlock responds quietly, his eyes stinging.

"You have to quit beating yourself up; it's how Mycroft knows he can get to you. He knows all your weaknesses, all your faults, and he knows which ones press your buttons most."

"He's my damn brother, he should know better than to say something like that," Sherlock says, his voice hurt. "Pressing buttons is one thing, but that was...that was not what that was."

"What was it then?"

"I don't know," he replies with a shrug, finally having calmed down a bit. "I don't know why he would say something so idiotic as that. He knows, John. He knows how bad things were."

"I know. I do too." John looks up at Sherlock. "I'd say go confront him, but I'm afraid you would wind up huddled in the corner, and I'd have to rebuild you." Then he smiles. "Did you see how red Greg turned when Mycroft gave him that look? I thought he was going to melt."

"I wish they both would've melted on the spot," Sherlock remarks. "And if I confronted him, I'm quite sure he would be the one huddled up into the corner, not me."

"No, no, very true." John continued to look at Sherlock. "Do you want to go home?"

"Yes. However, I don't think we can do so without letting them know, lest we wish to be assaulted by phone calls and texts later on."

"True."

Sherlock enters the dining room once again, his gaze cold and unaffected. "In case you haven't already gathered, which I'm quite certain you have, we'll be leaving. So kind of you to have invited us," he says plainly.

Mycroft and Greg jump, having been immersed in an intense conversation. Looking ill, Mycroft stands, "I've been informed I should-ah- _apologize_ for my behavior earlier. Apparently it was not necessary."

Sherlock looks evenly at Mycroft. "That you had to be informed, dear brother, tells me quite enough. At least Lestrade has enough sense in him to know when things are not appropriate. Funny, as I'm usually on the receiving end of the lecture."

John touches Sherlock's shoulder reassuringly, glancing at Mycroft. "We all know how difficult it was having Sherlock away, Mycroft. No one knows it better than I, but to use it against him, to shame him for acting out in a place where he clearly feels uncomfortable is out of line and you should be ashamed. Whether or not you understand that, at least you've been _informed_."

Sherlock gives John a slight smile, glad to have someone who is on his side. "Evening, Lestrade. Do try and keep him in line, I know it's difficult. Mycroft, I'll be seeing you soon enough I'm sure."

John nods at the two men, mouthing "Sorry" to Greg before leaving with Sherlock who visibly relaxes once they are outside.

"Thank you for that," Sherlock says as the two step into a cab. "He can be an idiot sometimes. I've no idea how anyone puts up with him."

"I don't know how _Greg_ puts up with him," John replies, brushing hair back from Sherlock's face in an attempt to distract him. "What he said before... about us, please know that I'm fine with where we are. Really. I'm not just saying that."

"Not sure I believe that, but if you'd like to say so," Sherlock says, glancing at John.

"Why not?"

He shrugs. "Because I know you too well, I suppose." He gives another slight smile.

John heart flips at that smile. "You think I'm impatient? We discussed this. _You're_ picking the speed."

"I think you're being perfectly agreeable about things. Gentlemanly and whatnot," teases Sherlock with a smirk.

"You prat!" John smacks the detective's arm playfully. "All right, fine. Sometimes I want to kiss you so hard it will make your head spin. I imagine doing all sorts of things with you and to you because of how much I care about you. But I'm _not_ going to force you into something you don't feel you're ready for."

Sherlock rolls his eyes, and then leans in, giving John a brief kiss. He stops, glancing around. "We are in a cab you know, more than likely being monitored by Mycroft. I don't doubt he has cameras. I'm sure he and Lestrade are having a wonderful time observing."

"Let them. Mycroft was horrible to you before and god knows we know enough about them to make the Yard buzz with rumors. Besides, Sherlock, you're _my_ boyfriend." John strokes Sherlock's face before returning the kiss, letting it linger a little longer than usual.

Sherlock can't help but chuckle quietly, his mind seeming to jerk to a halt. He isn't sure why, but John is quite good at derailing his thoughts and just making things quiet. _It is similar to high off of drugs_ , he thought, _only there is no crash_. John takes Sherlock's chuckle as a good sign, using the opportunity to deepen the kiss slightly, holding the detective closer.

"You know, I really do love you," Sherlock says, breaking the embrace gently, studying John for a moment. He can't help but smile from the look on his face.

"I know." The cab pulls up to 221B, John pays the cabbie, and both men head for the flat.

Sherlock enters the flat and picks up the violin. He isn't quite sure what has caused the sudden jolt of inspiration (if that's what this is), but he quickly starts to play, not thinking about anything in particular. _Well, except, perhaps, a certain blogger._

The music is unlike anything John's ever heard his friend play before: upbeat and exciting, the thrill of adventure one moment and then soft, languid, almost like a kiss the next. After half an hour, Sherlock has completed the song, and smiles, actually pleased with the result. He sets the instrument down, careful as ever, still halfway in his own world. John walks up behind him, sliding his hands around Sherlock's waist, pressing a kiss into his shoulder blade. "That was...amazing."

Sherlock jumps slightly, surprised. Then, he smiles. "Do you think you could busy yourself for an hour or so? I want to try something," he says, his voice light.

John sighs, feigning exasperation. "Fine, yes."

Sherlock smirks, giving him another quick kiss on the cheek. "It's a surprise, so try and act uninterested," he says, walking into the kitchen.

John buries his nose in the paper which works for all of sixty seconds before he gives up and switches on the telly, finding old Monty Python reruns. Interestingly, he manages to lose himself in the comedy, gradually tuning out the world. Sherlock has never been one to quite understand the way cooking works. _It's simple chemistry_ , he reasons, and so it really shouldn't be that difficult. He isn't sure how, but within a matter of minutes, something's on fire. Frantically, the throws water on to it, cursing under his breath. He knows the smell of smoke will catch John's attention, and so he says, "Don't worry about it! It's all, ah, part of the plan!"

John smirks, coming out of the Silly Walks sketch long enough to say, "Just don't burn the house down."

"I wouldn't do that," Sherlock mutters, going back to work. After almost an hour, he decides what he's made is going to have to do. It isn't terribly complex (after his failed first attempt, he decided to try and avoid anything that would require flames), but it's his best. After setting up the table for two, he says, "Whenever you're ready. I should caution you not to get used to this, as you probably wouldn't want to."

Switching off the telly, John heads cautiously into the kitchen, his face braking into a huge grin when he sees the table. Yes, it's jam, toast, and beans, but, _still_. John looks at Sherlock, still grinning. "Thank you."

"You would think cooking wouldn't be so damn difficult," he says, setting down a cup of tea beside John before taking a seat.

"Didn't you say once it was 'just chemistry?'" John struggles to keep from laughing, reminded of their antics from the disastrous dinner earlier.

Sherlock frowns slightly, still a bit upset that he was beaten by something as simple as an oven. "Well, yes, it is, and that's good and well until you want the chemistry to be edible. Then that's something else entirely."

John laughs, snorting tea out his nose, choking. "Sher-Sherlock!" he gasps, struggling for breath as he can't stop laughing. Finally managing to control himself, "I never thought I'd see you cook. You- you always surprise me, you know that?

"Glad to surprise you. I figured it wouldn't be so difficult, or else I'd have done something different." He pauses, and then adds with a smile, "I did cook before you came along, you know."

"Really? I thought you never had anything other than takeaway."

"Well, I made toast sometimes. I used to know how to do omelets, but I've forgotten how to do that, apparently," he replies, his face slightly flushed.

John reaches across the table, squeezing Sherlock's hand. "It's fine, really. It's the thought that counts, as cliché as that may sound."

Sherlock rolls his eyes with a snort. "Perhaps that's true in some instances. Not sure if it is when it applies to food, but I'll give you the benefit of doubt."

John laughs again, fingers tracing lazy patterns on the back of Sherlock's hand as he has some toast. "You didn't have to and you did anyway. That's all I'm saying."

"Well, I wanted to," he says, a slight smile on his face. He can't help but be at least a bit proud of himself.

John loves that smile: shy but confident and just a little cheeky. "Eat, then. You've cooked, and we never did have dinner. And _don't_ start with me on how you barely eat."

"Yes, sir," says Sherlock, still smirking a bit. He takes a bite of the toast, nodding his head in approval. It really isn't too burned.


End file.
